Incubus
by Andressa Matos
Summary: How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true!" Logan Pearsall Smith. House wakes up in his own personal version of hell. How did he get there? Will he ever be able to get out? Read and find out.;*
1. House

**Disclaimer****:** I unfortunately own nothing but my deranged mind and my exquisite taste. House MD belongs to David Shore and FOX.

_**This FIC, like all the others I've written – and the ones I plan to write eventually – is dedicated to a sweet, intelligent and hardworking girl from Alabama I was very lucky to meet. B, this one's for you, and for all the readers that are brave enough to go on with the reading. :D**_

_**Andie.**_

_**Incubus**_

The icy wind blows fiercely against my face as I shiver, opening my eyes abruptly. _Where am I?_ After some minutes of denial I finally give in; the leafy and imposing trees spread around an emerald green carefully maintained lawn. Smoky grey clouds move sluggishly in the sky, making the scenario utterly depressing and somehow threatening. The centenary and enormous stone building protrudes from the land like an old gravestone. It is all way too fresh in my mind for me to forget: _I am back at Mayfield. _

_But, why? What did I do wrong, how did I screw up? I'm still going to therapy every week or two, I'm haven't been on Vicodin for more than a year now, things are fine at work, things are great at home... There must have been a misunderstanding; I need to talk to Nolan... _With that in mind, I reach for my cane and it surprises me how numb my arms feel, my muscles clearly ignoring my brain's command. _What the hell!_ _Have they doped me?_ I try once again to move, and nothing other than my mind seems to be working properly in my system. I can feel the fear flooding through my veins, raising goose bumps as it goes. _Good, at least my peripheral nervous system is intact_.

My stomach churns as I glance at the navy blue iron benches ten feet away from me. _Wait, if I'm not sitting on them, then I- _I move my heavy head down - my neck kills me – and my heart races inside my chest when my eyes get the confirmation: I'm in a wheel chair. The fear automatically turns into panic. _Shit. No, no, this can't be. _My mind screams at my body to get up and walk, but it's useless. My limbs have a will of their own, and apparently they don't feel like moving a single inch.

I hurriedly scan the area around me. There used to be always a nurse watching the patients from afar to give them a false sensation of freedom and privacy when they were actually being observed more attentively than lab rats, but that was before. I can't see anyone around; I'm all alone in the chilly and desolated yard. The freezing wind penetrates easily through my jacket, making me sneeze. My nose is running, and I reflexively motion to raise my arm to clean it on my sleeve. Again, no movement whatsoever. My lachrymal glands do react though. I'm in the verge of tears.

_Help! Somebody help me! _I scream at top of my lungs in desperation, but my vocal cords don't vibrate. The weep forcefully restrained rolls free and warm down my cheeks, I'm no longer able to hold it, or even brush it away. A hole is brutally torn inside my chest, it's almost like I can feel it hemorrhaging. The oxygen poorly invades my lungs, and scorches its way to my alveolus; I suffocate. My still functional and restless mind doesn't take long to diagnose a panic attack.

I close my eyes and struggle to even my breathing. A loud and scary thunder breaks the dead silence, startling me and putting all my calming attempts to waste. _It's ok, at least I can still hear_, I rationalize, genuinely comforted for not having turned into a complete vegetable. My heart still hammers mercilessly against my ribcage, though, and now my head starts to spin. I'm hyperventilating. I know it won't be long until I faint and my eyelids involuntarily drop despite all of my effort to keep them up. In seconds, I'm out.

The intoxicating scent of Chanel no. 5 invades my nostrils and I'm immediately dragged back into consciousness. I dry cough, and my throat feels raw and sore. I don't want to open my eyes, there's no point in doing so. That's when a delicate hand slaps my face ever so gently. "House, please look at me", a velvet voice pleads concernedly. I automatically recognize it and concede. Her beautiful figure stands before me, and her terrified expression instantly softens into a relieved one. "Oh my God, you scared me!" she cries, hugging me and managing to cradle my head against her chest despite the awkward angle.

I notice her smell has changed; no more roast coconut body butter that I love. Her sobs subside and her heart slowly returns to a normal rate. She entangles her fingers in my thin hair and I can feel a sudden fluttering on my stomach that comes from hers. Reluctantly, she lets go of me and I glance at her pregnant belly: it looks huge. From its size I can tell she's just 2 or 3 weeks from delivering. _You've just turned four months, we've just found out it's a boy… What's going on, Lisa?_

I stare at her questioningly, and she stares back, misery coating the beautiful pair of jades that used to light my world. Or is it pity? The earth shatters slightly when the sky ferociously screams again with another thunder clap. Maybe it's trying to speak for me. Her left hand goes to rest on her belly in a reflex; she hates storms, they've always freaked the hell out of her. _Hey. That is not the ring I gave you…_ She takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes again. "I'm sorry it's been so long since the last time." she apologizes.

Four months, I calculate. She must be almost nine months along, so that makes at least four months since my last memory. "Dr. Nolan said you're getting better." she affirms, a weak smile adorning her worn out features. _If I am better, why do you look so hopeless?_ "He told me your brain seems to be regaining some functions that were lost during electroshock therapy. He's very optimistic..." she reassures, suddenly cut midsentence by her cell phone that rings inside of her purse. My stomach somersaults and I feel I'm about to throw up. _Electroshock therapy?_ "Yeah, you can bring her. He's conscious." she mutters, flipping the device shut without any more saying.

_What do you mean, 'h__e's sane'? Have I lost it, again, is that it?_ The panic has suddenly returned in full force, and I proceed to close my eyes in an ultimate and desperate try to regain control. She doesn't seem to notice I'm hyperventilating, because she doesn't bother on soothing me or anything for that matter. _Lisa, what happened? Help me, please…_She's obviously ignoring me, but I can still sense her presence before me.

After almost five minutes of intense struggle and shallow breathing, I manage to open my eyes again, and catch her waving at two people who walk in our direction. _Who are they?_ My blurry vision keeps me from recognizing them until they are only a few feet from me and Lisa. _Douglas? What are you doing here? _"I'm sorry, I had to take her to the bathroom", he explains before giving her a quick peck on the lips.

My hands get gelid as the realization sinks in. They are together now. _You left me for him, didn't you? You told me you never would, and you did…_ As my heart shatters in a million pieces and my life begins to drain out of me gradually, I divert my attention from the absolutely revolting and disrespectful PDA before me to the small person also present. A dark-haired five or six-year-old girl, dressed in a fancy purple coat and matching boots, a set of white and purple scarf, beret and gloves protecting her from the hostile weather. Those hazel eyes look very familiar… Nah, it can't be… _Rachel?_

I incredulously scrutinize my daughter, while her mother finally acknowledges her presence and lets go of the man who apparently has stolen my family."Come here, sweetie, come say hi to daddy". Cuddy encourages and ushers Rachel close to me. She looks so grown up in these clothes, the spitting image of her mother, despite the non-related genetic information. Her eyes exam me curiously, she obviously doesn't remember me at all. For a moment I think she's about to burst into tears, but she simply introduces herself nonchalantly "Hi. I'm Rachel House."

The betraying tear is back and stinging my cheek. My lower lip trembles vigorously. The four months have just grown into four years. I've just missed four years of my life. "Why is he crying, mommy? Did I say anything wrong?" Rachel wonders, worriedly. _No princess, it's not your fault._ "No, honey, daddy's just happy to see you." Cuddy stutters, barely managing to contain her own tears. Watching my daughter pitting me is far more than I can take. _Why the hell did you bring her here? Get her out of here; I don't want her to see me like this!_

This is not what I intended when I gave her my name, two months after she solemnly communicated me I had been chosen to be her dad and I accepted the title, secretly flattered. She was two and I had just picked her up from day care._ I'm sorry princess, I can't keep my promise. I can't be your daddy anymore. _I bow my head with difficulty, averting my gaze from Rachel in shame. She doesn't get my rejection attitude though. Instead of leaving me alone, she brushes my tears away with her tiny fingers "Don't cry daddy. I'm here with you."

"Lisa, are you ok?" The anxious tone of Douglas diverts my attention from Rachel back to Cuddy. She's holding her belly and wincing in pain, and he helps her to stand. Apparently, she's just got into labor. "Mommy!" Rachel rushes to her, placing her hand still wet from my tears on her mom's stomach. "Is my little sister coming?"

_Sister? But our baby is a boy. Wait, this isn't… Where's my son? _If four years passed since my last memory, it means that this is not my baby. It is Douglas's. _ Lisa, where's our son? Was he born ok? Why didn't you bring him? _The questions burn through my head and a third thunder causes the floor to quake under my chair. The sky darkens menacingly, and the first drops of water fall heavy on the grass.

I glare at Cuddy anxiously, as if expecting her to read my mind. She's oblivious to me though, her face contorts in agony. She reaches to touch her thigh, the scarlet blood gushing freely. "I told you this wasn't a good idea." Douglas scolds crossly "He made you lose his baby four years ago, and now he's doing the same to mine. Son of a bitch!" _I made her lose my baby? Oh my God, did I kill my son?!_

"Mommy!" Rachel shouts as Cuddy passes out in Douglas' arms. "Mommy, don't die!" she starts to cry, as Douglas tries to reanimate Cuddy in vain. The thundering is back, angry and powerful, and the rain is now pouring down mixing with the blood that flows from Cuddy's womb. The sky is about to fall down on our heads. Douglas stands there cathartic, not knowing what to do. _Go get some help, you moron!_ After some precious moments lost in shock, he's finally out of his reverie, as if he has actually heard me. "Rachel, Rachel, look at me. Mom's not gonna die, ok? I need you to be brave and do a favor for Uncle Luke…"

Douglas asks Rachel to take care of Cuddy while he runs back to the building to get help. I watch everything passively. The rain soaks me to the bone, water abandoning the purple inflated clouds as the thick blood abandons Cuddy's body. _"Lisa, come on, don't give up…"_ The piecing pain is back in my chest, far worse than before. My throat is blocked, I can't breathe, my vision is a total blur, it must be a heart attack this time… _Lisaaa!_

I open my eyes abruptly. My breathing is shallow, and my forehead is sweaty. My heart is about to perforate a hole through my sternum and my eyes are full of tears. I look around me and relief washes over me like a bucket of cool water when I realize where I am. It has all been a nightmare after all. Good that I have an hour with Nolan later today. Nightmares are full of meaning, and this one has just been an assembly of all the skeletons I keep stored in my closet.

My shirt is wet from my cold sweat and I carefully sit on the bed to remove it. I peek out the window, uncovered by the ivory curtains. The rain is still falling noisy and merciless outside. Feeling calmer, I lie back on my left side and spot them sleeping peacefully. Lisa is spooned on the other side of the bed while Rachel lies between us, sucking on her pacifier. I kiss her temple and smell her delicious baby scent. She's still two, she still remembers me, and I'm still the dad she chose some months ago. As I relax my head on the pillow I stretch my arm to touch Lisa's stomach. It's still a bulge, and I get to watch it grow patiently every day. I stroke it ever so lightly, wishing my son – well, Matthew - could actually feel my fondling. _Matthew House. _That is indeed a beautiful name. Lisa told me it meant "gift from God". Well, I don't believe in God, but my family is definitely a gift to me.

A bolt lightens through the window and I can tell a loud thunder is on the way. I scooch close to the girls and hug them protectively. The thunder comes, and it's pretty startling. They don't wake up though, there's no reason to fear. I'm there for them, and they know it. With a smile on my lips, I let go and drift off to sleep.

* * *

_**Reviews are love, especially the long, thoughtful, positive ones... **__**LOL! Just kidding. Speak your mind and make us both happy. :D**_

_**Oh, and if this story made a big impression on you for whatever reason, stay tuned for the sequel. I guarantee you've never read something like it before. **_


	2. Nolan

**Disclaimer:** I unfortunately own nothing but my deranged mind and my exquisite taste. House MD belongs to David Shore and FOX.

_**Hello, my dearest readers! I'm so sorry for scaring the hell outta you, shame on me… What's utterly intriguing and pleases me more than I can tell is that although this story is one of the creepiest House FICs ever written, some of you did seem to like it! What does that make you, guys? **__**Should I be scared of you too? What about me and my new Stephen King persona? LOL **_

_**Seriously now, t**__**hanks a lot for the reviews and for all the silent feedback from people who marked this story as their favorite. I love you too guys. **_

_**As promised, here's the innovative and clarifying sequel to Incubus. **_

_**And it's dedicated to everybody who was brave enough to complete the reading. :D**_

_**Andie.**_

_**Incubus – part II**_

He is already waiting for me in my office, comfortably sprawled on the lounge chair playing on his PSP as I enter the room apologizing for my delay. My presence in the room does not distract him from his game; he does not move a single inch. In spite of his relaxed attitude, I can sense today is going to be a promising session; after almost two years of treatment, I have a clue of what to expect from one of my most troublesome and fascinating patients, and punctuality sure as hell does not take part in this group.

After ignoring me for a good five minutes, Greg sets his favorite toy aside and reaches for his back pocket. I take that as a sign to intervene "Soooo, what are talking about today? The last impossible puzzle you solved in the last minute, the season finale of General Hospital, the origin of the insomnia you've been having for couple of days now, your pick…"

"I knew I should have borrowed Lisa's concealer this morning. I hate to make things easy for you…" he retorts without diverting his attentive gaze from his iPhone, which makes me instantly curious.

Before my curiosity can actually start to bother me, Greg hands me his phone. "Check this out", he urges me, and I do as I am told. On the screen a video is playing, the gray image, almost a blur, except for a distinguished form in the middle. The characteristic frantic pulsing sound on the background brings a smile to my lips. Gregory House has recorded the ultrasound of his unborn child and is showing it to me. From the corner of my eye I can see his lips curling up ever so imperceptibly. I pretend I do not notice; pointing that out would only make him uncomfortable.

"You see that?" he points to the screen when the fetus' tiny penis becomes visible. "That's genetics, you know? Little guy's already such a show off. I bet I'll have a hard time teaching him how to be discrete." I chuckle at his irreverent remark and we both watch the rest of the video silently while I try to hide the amazement his unexpected gesture has just made me feel. More than once I have considered House a lost case. It is good my stubbornness kept me from giving up on him though; moments like this remind me why I have chosen to be a psychiatrist in the first place.

"Lisa must be overjoyed…" I unnecessarily point out when he moves back to sit in his chair. "I practically had to put her on IV fluids after the first ultrasound to prevent any dehydration from all the crying but _I_ was the hysterical one this time." He confessed, brows furrowing worryingly "She had some mild cramping a couple of days ago and I just freaked the hell out…"

I reassure him that was a logical reaction. "No, it doesn't make any sense. It wasn't more than a discomfort, she was not bleeding… I knew it was probably just the uterus expanding, but I was just not rational. I ignored 30 years of medical knowledge and acted like those overprotective moron parents that come to clinic everyday, dragged her to PPTH at 4am and hooked her to an ultrasound machine so I could finally--- That's so screwed up…" he stops midsentence and runs his slender pianist fingers through his grey disheveled hair.

"I guess you just used the wrong verbal form before… Your 'freaking out' obviously started, but has not finished at a specific time in the past, so _Present Perfect_ would be more fitting to your speech." He glares at me, half annoyed and half amused by my clever comment.

"Whatever, Mr. Sidney Greenbaum… Geez! You're becoming even more obnoxious as time goes by, you know that, right?" He scolds in fake annoyance and I simply smirk. "The thing is ever since then, I've been having these Japanese-drowning-girl-horror-movie nightmares every time I try to take a nap…"

"That bad?" I inquire, genuinely concerned now that he has just confirmed his lack of sleep. That was exactly how the hallucinations started two years ago, his overly tired and sleep-deprived mind losing the touch with reality also due to restlessness and bringing up part of his long suppressed emotions.

I lower my guard for two seconds and he is able to read the concern stamped in my face. House is a gifted observer that has learned just as much about me as I have gotten to know about him after all these months. The feeling of being just as meticulously analyzed while trying to do my job used to overwhelm me at first but, now, it feels quite challenging. "It's not the same, ok? It's not like the other time, I'm not hallucinating, and I haven't made any announcements from the hospital balcony… That's because Rachel slept between her mother and me last night and I didn't get to do anything worth proclaiming, so stop looking so worried. You won't have me back here any time soon."

There is nothing left for me but lying and making use of his minor outburst. The preoccupation he claims to see in my face is nothing but a reflection of his own. "I'm not worried. Where did you get that from? Better yet, what do you think I should worry about?"

"Look, I know where this is going, ok? You can save your lecture on how dreams are meaningful, 'the royal road to the unconscious', yada yada yada… That's basic psychology, I'm not a moron. All I need you to do is tell me how to get rid of them, that's all." He says impatiently, quoting Freud. His anxious posture tells me that the dreams have been more frequent and bothersome than I have imagined ten minutes ago.

"Well, I think that if your knowledge on Psychology Literature is as great as you make it sound, you should know that Freud based his work on the relevance of talking." I state, standing up to help myself a mug of peppermint tea. I gesture to offer him some and he merely nods in acceptance "So, why don't you give it a shot and tell about your nightmares? We'll see where we'll go from there." I hand him the black mug and settle down in my chair.

After a deep sigh and a long gulp of tea, he starts to narrate his recurrent nightmare with a significant amount of detail, much more than I dared to expect. His worn out expression softens into a more laid-back one as his telling proceeds, like the dream is getting less and less intimidating as the words flood out of his mouth. The manifestation of his unconscious is fascinating, a clear denotation of a imperious need to cope, and I try to make as few interventions as possible while registering all the topics involved in brief notes. I must confess that, as a professional, I could not wish for richer material to work with. All the neuralgic points I intended to bring up during the next sessions wrapped up in a beautiful package, with a big red bow on top.

After almost ten minutes of uninterrupted monologue, House is done with his relating. "Ok, that's it. What's your big plan now, Sigmund?" He asks with the familiar tone of sarcasm and daring.

"Now we talk about. We analyze it." I reply, a grin creeping up in my lips at his frustrated expression. Scientists, always seeking shortcuts… "What? Were you waiting for a miraculous solution? Sorry to disappoint you, but don't forget that you are the diagnostician here, not me."

"Ok, whatever. Just get on with it. Anything that gives me my precious REM sleep back..." House grumbles, edginess gradually turning into hostility. The guy has a hell of a mood. A permanently swinging one.

"Well, you've just told me that the nightmare started after the incident with Cuddy, so we can only assume that her bleeding in your dream in a reflex of your concern…" I start in a dull endeavor to make him cooperate. Sometimes House reminds me of my rotation on pediatrics back in med school. Or, maybe not… On a second thought, kids looked much more obliging back then.

The anxious expression is suddenly back adorning his face. "She's a woman bearing in her forties who tried IVF at least three times and failed, the last time crowned with a bloody and painful miscarriage. Her uterus couldn't hold a baby when her system was loaded with a hormone arsenal of North Korean Army proportions. The fact that we got to conceive this kid by natural means is already a slap to science's face, now, tell me I have no reasons to freak out about it!" He gratuitously argues, working his hardest on trying to disguise parental worry on his standard scientific speech. It is almost naïve of him. I could smell his fatherly instinct blooming from three blocks away.

"You have every reason to freak out about your son and girlfriend's health, Greg. Thank you for briefly enlisting the medical reasons for it, but let me give you the news: you'd still care the same way if she was a 25-year-old having her third baby. Because this is not about medicine anymore, and you know it." I deliver sharply, in a much firmer tone than I would ever use with any of my other patients. We do not pat pit bulls on the head, after all.

"Yeah, yeah, Dr. Phil, I get it, I'm becoming the father of the year." I try hard not to guffaw as the third nickname of the day. House definitely has an infinite source of potentially insulting yet ultimately amusing epithets. "I wouldn't mind turning into those morons who purchase tiny sport outfits for their babies matching their own, name the poor kid after themselves or distribute Cubans in the waiting room while Lisa breaks every glass window in the building with her screaming pushing the boy out if that pathetic fact would not stop me from being rational. My ability to think puffed at her second wince that night! I was completely useless! Who needs a loser father like that?"

That is it, the sentiment of helplessness that needed to be brought up. Have I mentioned how much I love this nightmare? "Is that how you felt? Useless? As if you had your feet and legs tightly tied up? As if the rest of your body refused to obey your lucid mind? I guess I've just heard of a similar situation a couple of minutes ago…" I point out, grinning wildly as realization sank onto him. By the look of relief in his eyes I could tell that finding the sense in his late Incubus activity is somehow comforting.

"Reason is not exactly an obsession to you, House. It's your safe shore. You have an elevated IQ, so everything that can be counted, measured or reasonably explained has never been much of an issue to you. Understanding is nothing but a matter of time and effort. Feelings, however, are much more rebellious, hard to dominate. It may take a lifetime to figure them out, and once you finally do, there is absolute no guarantee that you'll be able to change them. It's a bet with terrible odds that you can't help but make." I explain and he listens to me attentively, probably looking for a fallacy in my argument. "You have been having feelings for your son since you found about his existence, whether you want it or not. Suppressing all emotions just in case things go wrong will not keep you from suffering if something bad happens, it doesn't work that way. Symptoms can be predicted, but the future is its own master."

After I finish my speech, the room is enveloped in an almost sacred silence. He knows I am right, that some things in life are not made to be understood, but merely accepted. He has been staring at his shoes for the last couple of minutes, and I am already coming up with a clever intervention line when his grave voice echoes once more on my eardrums "I got him a Monster Truck onesie…"

Gregory House buying baby stuff… I must say it is a sort of traumatic and implausible scenario. Suddenly I have serious problems disguising my utter shock. "You did?"

House looks down, visibly embarrassed. "I was browsing the Monster Truck site to buy tickets for me and Wilson and then I saw it." He explains in a low ashamed tone, as if he is actually a corrupt cop admitting to having connections with the Russian mafia other than a parent-to-be buying an outfit to his baby "It was stupid. I tried to cancel the purchase half an hour later, but the order had already been sent. It got delivered yesterday in my office and now I don't know what to do with it."

House's awkwardness is so pungent that it makes me wonder what it must be like to live tied by your own chains and shackles like this. To be extra careful with your every act, settle for lamely walking on eggshells instead of running free so your immaculate – or horrendous – reputation remains intact. Does he even know he has a better shot at just being himself and let the rest be damned? "What about taking it home and showing it to Lisa?" I offer almost naively, and feel his intense ice blue stare tearing a hole on my skull.

As I expected, my suggestion is greeted with a huge frown. "Geez, are you related to Wilson, by any chance?" House inquires, more than a hint of indignation coating his tone. "I'm not gonna encourage her even more with this. It's hard enough to watch her fondling her belly and talking to the fe... to the _baby_ all day. She's choosing names! Her pregnancy is highly risky, she knows things can go incredibly wrong, and yet she has no trouble ignoring the entire hazard and acting all ecstatic, like she's the only costumer at a Jimmy Choo sale."

I purposefully ignore his negativity. I know he will understand I am trying to make a point here. That is the main advantage of having a patient with an IQ higher than mine. "She's picking out names? Which are her options?"

My deflection unnerves him just as I planned it to. "I guess I don't have to remind you what happened the last time you tried an innovative course of treatment on me… You blackmailed me and I made a guy jump off a building. Do you really think being sarcastically deflective is a good idea?" He protests in his usually sarcastic manner, though failing on sounding truly threatening.

As he takes my bait and lowers his guard, I see the chance to make my move. "I will try anything to bring you back to reality, House. Because that's what Cuddy's doing, she's living in reality. She's doing exactly what she's supposed to do; she's picking out names, taking care of her health and enjoying every second of her miracle. You, on the other hand, are the one stuck in a virtual screwed up future that only exists in your head." He merely stares at me, absolutely disarmed, his brain having a hard time processing my truthful words. There is no way in hell he will get to contradict me here. "If being a pessimist was ever enough to stop bad things from happening to you, we wouldn't be talking right now."

Silence. House's body language indicates defeat as he partially surrenders to the undeniable veracity of my previous point. "I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist." He disagrees dully, about to recoil into his protective carapace like a startled turtle.

But I am not set to let him do so. "No. In fact, you are the text book pessimist. You are so attached to the misery you are familiar with that you push the alien, unknown happiness away. You are so afraid of suffering, and that's understandable, that's human, but the problem here is that this dread is powerful enough to make you miserable alone. Don't you see? It's a vicious circle. And it needs to be broken." I state matter-of-factly, the sureness in my tone almost overwhelming. Sometimes it is all about emphasizing. "You need to acknowledge and accept happiness, and that's why I insist on asking you, what are Cuddy's name options? What does she plan to call your baby boy?"

I do not know what answer to wait for as House bows his head and stares at his shoes for a minute or so, apparently lost in thought. There is no doubt I have succeeded on making my point, but his reaction to my words could be anything between abruptly leaving the room or making a racist remark… I certainly have not anticipated what I am about to hear next. "Jewish mommy had already made an agreement with the godfather-to-be regarding the middle name, but was having a hard time choosing the first one among all the great options in the Scriptures, so after a quick Google session she decided that 'gift of God' was the most coherent meaning." House gets me thunderstruck by answering my question with little resistance. "There's really not much to be done about the last name, so I guess that makes _Matthew James House_." He completes in usual self-deprecating mood, trying to reduce his participation in his son's life by simply providing a nickname, just as "House" has been once provided to him.

His desperate effort at nonchalance is futile. I could smell his fatherly pride from miles away. "Wow, I think that's a lovely name. Don't you like it?" I sincerely compliment, still astounded by the sole fact that he has just volunteered me this piece of information.

"I'm pretty much ok with every American name that's not John…" He keeps trying vainly to show no interest and I do feel like telling him it's getting old…

Instead, I go for a safe route. "Wilson must be very flattered with the tribute." I point out, presuming that the James "god-father-to-be" is Dr. Wilson, House's best – and unique, at least officially… - friend.

"I hope his enthusiasm is strong enough to last 18 years, because he doesn't know yet, but this honor has the reasonable price of contributing with at least 30 percent of Ivy League tuition." He states with such conviction that I cannot really tell whether he is serious or not. I still have not had the opportunity to meet James Wilson in person, but by the frequency in which House mentions him during our sessions and the genuine concern the famous oncologist demonstrated regarding House's welfare while he was institutionalized, I can only assume their friendship is one of the greatest emotional references on both their lives. Maybe helping with college tuition was a bit too much, but Wilson would definitely have a very special role in young House's life, just like he has on the senior's.

I can only hope House is actually joking, for Wilson's savings sake. "Of course you need Wilson's help. The best diagnostician in the continent and Princeton's Dean of Medicine must make a lousy living…" I say ironically before my inattentive mind can filter the over flattering adjectives in my sentence. Now his oversized ego can inflate and crush us against the walls of the office…

Or not… "Hey, the price of your brainwashing sessions here are not exactly popular." He scolds, completely ignoring my previous unintentional praise. I have forgotten that for House there is really no merit in stating the obvious.

"Ok, ok, so allow me to earn the preposterous amount of money you pay me monthly…" I suggest, going for exploring another interesting aspect of his creepy yet significant nightmare "You mentioned that Rachel was also present in your dreams. How is your relationship with her?"

House twitches his lips for a second, hesitating a bit before replying with one of his trademark metaphors. "Rachel is… She's like taking a good humored Lisa on a pain-free day to an exclusive Norah Jones concert and having a bottle of well-aged scotch. She's… pleasant."

My mind works rapidly on processing the scene he has just painted with his rushed words. It looks pretty good, at least to me. "Well, that sounds great…" His skeptical expression tells me otherwise. "Right?"

"Yeah, except that there is no such thing as pain-free days, Norah Jones's exclusive concert tickets are impossible to get and Lisa in a good mood nowadays is only possible through food bribe. It's costing me a bucket of frozen yogurt just to make her give me a b… Well, I guess that's too much information for you." He ruins the beautiful scenario altogether as someone blowing a fragile castle of cards and I struggle to take no notice of his sexual innuendo. In fact, it has taken a quite lot for him to make his first sex joke of the day; it might be his record on being discrete.

To this point, there is nothing left for me but confess. "Ok, you lost me."

Surprisingly, his explanation makes perfect sense this time. "When Cuddy decided to adopt Rachel I gave her hell for it, I did everything I could to make her life even more impossible, causing extra havoc in the hospital so she had to leave the kid alone at home and come to PPTH to stop me. I hated the girl." He admits and I look for true repent in his tone.

Instead, I find honesty. "You did not hate her, you were jealous of her because motherhood was diverting Cuddy's attention from you…" I reason, not too persuaded by my fallacious assumption. House did feel a strong antagonism towards Rachel in the past, which made me utterly worried about his resolution of giving her his last name a few months ago, even knowing that time and coexistence had made him grow fond of his former stepdaughter. Back then he tried to diminish the relevancy of his act, insisting it was no big deal, but I was already sure that legally fathering Rachel would eventually bring some serious implications to my patient.

And now guilt is eating his gut. "Whatever you wanna call it, hatred, jealousy, the fact is that I couldn't care less about her. I called her a bastard in Cuddy's face, and less than one year later she's calling me daddy and throwing herself in my arms every time I walk home. It doesn't make any sense, I'm not sure I can deal with that." And there it is, a varied cocktail of sentiments, all mixed, bitter and ready to drink. Repent, self-loathing, disbelief, awkwardness, unworthiness and guilt, a lot of guilt.

His thought process makes sense now. "So, let me get this straight. You are unable to relax and enjoy Lisa's pregnancy because you are overwhelmed by a potential tragic future, and you can't enjoy Rachel's affection because you're tormented by your behavior towards her in the past… Well, I guess you've just reinforced my previous thesis, House. You're skipping the present moment. You're unconsciously looking for motives to feel miserable." I affirm in a serious tone, determined to break this vicious circle that keeps House from moving on and taking pleasure in his new life.

He reflexively gets defensive. "No, I'm not. I'm just trying to figure out why a three-year-old toddler, who's not noisy, or demanding, or whining as everyone else in her age, asked me of all people to be her father. Is it because I'm there? Yeah, because I don't do much more than hanging out with her in the living room while her mom doesn't get home from work. Is that it, what fathers do? Is it the remarkably difficult role that everyone blabs so much about?" House's certainty that he is not suitable for the almost mythic father job is very disturbing. So much confidence on his medical talent and such despise for his emotional skills…

Unfortunately, I have nothing more comforting to say to him on that subject. Nothing that is true anyway... "I don't think there's a formula for that, House. Fatherhood is not organic chemistry." A shot in the dark, I would say.

"Well, it should be. Then I'd be 100% sure I'm good at it." He makes a valid point. And I commiserate with him on that…

I should think of something fast or my own hopelessness will be too evident to hide. "Tell me more about your relationship with Rachel, and maybe I can give you some input." I suggest before House can actually notice that his earlier comment has gotten to me.

If he has realized my deflection attempt, he does not care about it enough to pick on me because he does not avoid my question. "Well, I'm at work from nine to five-_ish_, so I only get to stay with her during the evenings and weekends, that is, when I'm not hanging out with Wilson…"

"And how does it feel like, when you're alone with her? Do you guys do anything together?" I ask out of genuine curiosity. It is remarkably hard to imagine House interacting with a child.

I just have had no idea that my question would be so welcomed and satisfactorily replied. "It's comfortable. She's a very quiet, simple kid, you know? As long as she has blank sheets of paper and crayons to make ugly misshaped drawings, or half a dozen dolls around to play with, she's fine. Unless we're watching Animal Planet – because she asks the name of every single ugly creature that appears on the screen – she's the best person to watch TV with, way better than Wilson who can't keep his mouth shut, or Cuddy who fights for the remote as if her life depends on it. See, there was this day…"

His severe face automatically relaxes while he tells me one of his baby daughter's most recent deeds. His emotional shield and helmet are temporarily put aside, and suddenly I cannot behold that much difference between the absolutely unique man in front of me and any other parent out there as he lets his fascination and sincere devotion for the little girl show oddly uncensored. I may confess it is almost disconcerting to see him like this, slightly out of character, talking freely, and even flashing a timid half-grin from time to time. So different from the dejected tormented man I met in this same office about a year or so, the pungent need to inflict on others the insufferable pain he carried within, maybe sharing a little bit of the heavy burden which was so hard to bear.

I discretely glance at my watch to check the time; the session was supposed to be over ten minutes ago, but I don't have the heart to stop him, not when he is rediscovering his natural role as a father. So I just let him be, enouncing the kid's habits and accomplishments in his peculiar Hous_ish_ manner, as if she were a remarkably interesting scientific experiment. Apparently, he has spent much more time trying to figure her out than he will ever be able to admit, but I do not intend to throw that fact in his face, not yet.

His evident connection with this shy reserved precocious girl – and maybe even resemblance - might be useful to mention during the next session, when I intend to bring up the ever so delicate topic of his relationship with his father and try to free him from the unconscious dread of mirroring John House's abusive and scarring endeavor to mold his son after his own self. The sole fact that House struggles to understand and accept Rachel as she really is denotes a sensitivity that lacks in most of the best intentioned mothers and fathers I have ever met, who tend to raise their children as their own mini versions. Then again, psychotherapy is not about providing patients with complete answers, but helping them to find their own, and I have the tough mission to lead House into seeing that being a great father to those kids is possible, just as getting over the feeling of rejection and inappropriateness that has been consuming him since his childhood. It will not be easy, but the most worthwhile and rewarding things in life generally are not.

I am taking notes on my pad and listening attentively to House's blabbing when a loud hip hop beat breaks our concentration. The tune's suggestive lyrics give me a clue of who might be calling him; _"have a baby by me, baby, be a millionaire"_ keeps repeating on the chorus and I cannot help but laugh wholeheartedly once more at House's wit "Hmmm, let me guess… Cuddy?" I uselessly point out and get a "duh" gaze in response before he answers his call. "Yes, mistress… Yeah, we're done; Nolan just loves me too much to let me go. You girls still at the park?" He inquires and twitches his lips in an almost imperceptible grin at whatever reply he gets from Lisa before flipping his phone shut and limping to the door.

"You stalkers! I knew you two had an agenda… Bribing me with a junk food lunch offer just to talk me into letting you drive me here; that was cunning!" He accuses jokingly, opening my office's door to let a dark-haired petit pregnant woman in, along with a cereal-add adorable-looking kid. "I'm so sorry for interrupting... We've waited in the car for a while, but then I needed to pee, and we were both thirsty, and there was this really nice blond doctor who was in the bathroom and heard us complaining about the heat and told us there were drink machines on this floor…" Cuddy hurried on explaining herself, visibly worried that House might have been upset by her and Rachel showing up unannounced.

"Hey, chill out Pedro Almodóvar, no need for intricate plots, it's ok. Nolan has already noticed you are dying to meet him in person, thank him for his miraculous repairing work on my broken self and try to buy his soul with a tempting job offer, so why don't we get this over with? I'm hungry and I want my greasy cheeseburgers." House says casually, indirectly introducing me to his girlfriend.

It is impossible not to gag at her stunning beauty. House gets a kick out of bragging about his woman's privileged good looks, but I always thought he must be biased by his irrevocable love and desire for her. Now I can see he is not. I feel his eyes scrutinizing my dumbfounded expression and the male pride exhaling from his pores. She is, indeed, a goddess. Before I am tempted enough by my instincts to take too close a look at her assets, she flashes a charming smile than enlightens the room and extends her right hand. "Hi Dr. Nolan. I'm Lisa Cuddy."

"Hi. It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Dr. Cuddy." I greet her back and politely shake her hand. She starts to compliment me for my work and we engage ourselves in a conversation while I conspicuously watch Rachel and House's silent interaction from the corner of my eye. Cuddy notices my fascination and continues to talk so House and Rachel will not acknowledge our curious staring. The hazel-haired little girl lets go of her mother's hand and walks to House before reaching for something in the tiny pocket of her pink dress; it is a red lollypop. "I saved for daddy." She offers, stretching her tiny arm up and handing the candy to her father. House fails on disguising the alien beam that immediately garnishes his face and place his cane on the comforter to free his right hand and take the girl in his arms.

"Did you two have fun at the park?" He asks his daughter in a sweet tone while she struggles with the lollipop wrap plastic. "Yes. There was a boy with a big brown dog and he let mommy and me play with it." She replies, using her minuscule teeth as a tool to free the candy from its involucres. After a few forceful bites she finally succeeds on her mission and shoves the cherry lollipop into her dad's mouth.

"Weren't you afraid of the dog?" House manages to inquire while sucking vigorously on the candy. The extra weight gradually strains his leg and makes him give up on the standing position, and he awkwardly supports himself on the comforter and sits down, placing Rachel on his good leg.

"No. The boy's mommy said he was trained, that I could even pull on his tail if I wanted to, but I didn't. It would hurt him." Rachel answered nonchalantly, curiously peering in my direction before asking in a whisper "Dr. Nolan is a _diagnosticitian_ like daddy?"

House chuckles at her cute misspelling. "It's _diagnostician_…" he kindly corrects her, and clarifies "And no. He's a mind reader."

_**Reviews are love, especially the long, thoughtful, positive ones... **__**LOL! Just kidding. Speak your mind and make us both happy. :D**_

_**So, what did you**__** guys think of this chappy? Not too mushy, right? Okay, maybe just a little, but I simply the idea of House being a daddy… And I could not resist bringing Nolan back, his patience and wisdom on earning House's trust was absolutely fascinating to me. And for the ones who have never gone through psychotherapy and might have found it weird the intimacy between House and Nolan, I guarantee you that's pretty much what it is about, sharing, opening up, disinfecting emotional wounds so they can finally heal. **_

_**Oh, and one last thingy… Who likes smut? Hands? Leave me a note if you do. **___


	3. Cuddy

**Disclaimer:** I unfortunately own nothing but my deranged mind and my exquisite taste. House MD belongs to David Shore and FOX.

_**Olá, my bravest readers! It's been ages, huh? **__**I missed you too, guys, more than I can possibly express with my poor non-native English. You see, I don't know which of you still craved for an update to this tale, but in order to at least try to win you back I must use the ace I have up my sleeve: I have a thing for my creepy baby FIC as a mother protects the black sheep child. I confess. And the fact that every reader who got this far on my story had the guts to pass the purposefully terrifying first chapter makes me respect each of you even more.**_

_**So here it is, guys, for my JB readers (Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer, all the really though guys you can think of), a "pleasant Sunday afternoon, cool lemonade, shorts and flip flops" reading material to soothe your House MD summer withdrawal crisis. Yeah, I think it sucks too. TO THE BONE.**_

_**BTW, this chapter is dedicated to Lisa Edelstein and the stubborn tears that sprouted in her eyes when Kristin told her about the five Tater Top trophies – with her name on the plate! - she was about to receive. Lisa E. honey, let me just give you the news: there is not much merit in our love since you already make us fans ecstatic by your solely smile; it's a pretty easy job to like you girl! **_

_**XOXO**_

_**Andie**_

_**Incubus – Part III**_

There are days in my life when I wish I had an average job. You know, 9 to 5, Mondays to Fridays, reasonable paycheck… _Lisa Cuddy MD, Head of_ _Endocrinology_. That does not sound bad, does it? After all, that is exactly what I once hoped for back in my college days, when even in my greatest and widest ambitions it never occurred to me I would eventually become the Dean of Medicine at an Ivy League college.

Evidently, being just a mortal doctor would have its cons; well, everything else in life does… My closet is packed with some really cherished friends it has gotten used to hanging out with: Armani, Prada, Blannik and Birkin are definitely mandatory in presence. Then again, flaunting those famous surnames all over your powerful persona does not serve as much of a consolation when you are forcefully dragged out of your man and daughter's side, right in your restful, almost sacred day off, to deal with the utmost junkie food crisis of 2010.

Who cares that I was finally getting to finish the last pile of paperwork while my boyfriend skillfully played the solo of Hotel California on guitar and my baby girl put a lot of effort into my first official finger painting portrait? Who gives a damn about my personal life when a moron with a minimum wage job was not careful enough while performing his highly complex burger-making duties, and as a result five hundred students who ate from Princeton's biggest cafeteria ended up with severe food poisoning? Those people need treatment, right? They need proper care at the nearest hospital of excellence. My hospital. Neither one of them can be bothered with my needs.

After five interminable hours standing in my four-inch heels struggling to sort out the unprecedented chaos that PPTH's ER has become after the invasion of a throwing up twenty-year-old multitude, I am finally home. My feet hurt, my head hurts, my back hurts… Oh hell, let's just summarize this: _I_ _hurt_. It is a few minutes past midnight as I smoothly close the front door careful not to wake them up; the sound of TV coming from the living room tells me they have probably fallen asleep on the couch. Again.

I glance at the 42" Plasma for a moment; The Late Late Show is on, Craig Ferguson is interviewing the cast of that famous vampire saga. I chuckle at the thought that Greg must be really out of it for that thing to be playing before his eyes. As I mindfully approach the couch, the characteristic sound of his light snoring and steady breathing gives me the confirmation I need. However, as my eyes take in the lovely and almost miraculous scene before me, the glistening is automatic. No matter how many times the sun dies and rises again on the horizon, day after day, I do not think I will ever get indifferent to observing House and Rachel together like that. I will never take for granted the fact that they have naturally recognized and adopted each other as father and daughter, and my interference was hardly ever required. As well as decades ago, when the accomplishments in my career seemed too unachievable to even dream of, I never even dared to hope that Rachel would eventually form an even stronger bond between House and I as the love we feel for each other and the baby boy I am carrying in my womb grows. These are sentimental times that will ever change, independently of what comes out of our, hmmm, _unorthodox_ romantic relationship.

As absolutely cute and totally screensaver material the scene is of Rachel comfortably nested on House's chest and protectively held in place by his strong arms, I am obliged to mess it up. Neither of my beloved ones will remain that adorable in half an hour when they wake up sleepy, sore and grumpy. Cautious not to awaken my baby girl, I deliberately manage to yank her out of House's embrace, though he instinctively holds on his grip in reaction to my harassment, stirring up all of a sudden. His startled eyes soften once they register my image, and his arms automatically loosen up and let go of Rachel. "I'll tuck her in", I whisper, smiling warmly while heading to Rachel's room.

There is nothing comparable to the feeling of my daughter cradled against my chest. I do not rush in carrying her to her crib, welcoming her warmth and her unique baby scent to my hospital-chastised senses. Even though I secretly hope she stirs up and gives me the chance to lull her back to sleep, Rachel is still sound asleep when I lie her on the soft mattress and cover her with her favorite light yellow afghan. _Another missed bed time_, I mouth regretfully. Stupid, stupid toxin!

I run my finger over her pink cheek as her tiny facial muscles continue to rhythmically suck on her pacifier. "Time to get rid of this, young lady…" I admonish and brush my lips on her forehead "God bless you, baby." I can feel his presence leaning on the threshold while I kiss Rachel one last time and unwillingly move away from her crib, the now familiar guilt of absent working mothers burning in the pit of my stomach.

I am positive he can read the angst openly displayed on my face by the moment my worn out eyes lock with his beautiful aquamarines, though he does not say a word about it. As much as it infuriates me ninety percent of the time, Greg's aversion to talk about feelings fits me just fine right now. After twenty years of coexistence, he knows exactly what I currently need and seems very pleased on giving it to me as his mouth sensually claims mine without any pointless warning. As always, I melt instantaneously in his arms, catapulted to another galaxy once his fingers entangle themselves in my hair, my small frame lost beneath his robust one as he deepens the kiss and his tongue invades my mouth to explore it unhurriedly.

After less than one year of practice, I have mastered the art of interpreting House's actions, which speak much louder than the words that never leave his mouth, even though the ones that actually do are often just as unhelpful. His kisses, especially, are loaded with meaning. As he parts his juicy lips from mine, my mind works on recognizing every emotion in his gesture: missing, complicity, protectiveness. I open my eyes lazily still numb from the air-depriving kiss and raise my hand to touch his stubble cheek. He keeps his secure grasp around my waist, my body still locked with his. He creases his forehead and his lips slightly curl up in a mockery grin "Lemme guess… (-)?"

I simply nod my head, unsurprised. The instant they called me earlier from the hospital telling me about the food poisoning incident that demanded my attention, he listed at least fifteen possible diagnoses that matched the patients' symptoms, among bacteria, viruses and toxins. (-) obviously included. And then people pick on him for being arrogant. It is not really his fault if he was born a genius, is it? Not that I ever plan to tell him that, though. His already abnormally huge ego would inflate like a hot-air balloon and impale us against the house's walls and I do not feel like dying of suffocation.

"Well, after five hours smelling yummy microorganism infected stomach contents I assume you're not hungry, are you?" he jokingly questions me, and I feel my stomach protest vehemently at the very idea of ingesting any sort of food.

"Not really", I scowl at him in disgust, and he laughs openly at my revolted expression. _God, how do I adore the sound of his laughter, I wish_ _I could hear it more often_... "Then I guess I'll just have to eat all the Yakisoba I ordered you…" He gives me a peck on the lips and lets me go, walking to the kitchen in order to burgle the fridge. I notice he is barely limping, even without his cane; today must have been a nice day.

I follow him and smile at the sight of a 1,89m man bending over to withdraw the takeout boxes from the small refrigerator "And then you blame an asexual Incubus for your nightmares… I wouldn't find it odd if you dreamt of an evil Ninja chasing you in the medieval woods tonight after all the Japanese food you must have eaten…" I taunt him and his lips curl up a bit in response "Late night meals won't help your insomnia, you know."

Dexterously handling the _hashi_, he shoves the first bunch of noodles inside of his awaiting open mouth and chews a little before replying saucily, pointing to his zesty body with the chopsticks "This is not easy to maintain, you know? Where do you think I get the energy from to scandalize your sexually repressed suburban neighbors every single night? I don't have chlorophyll in my skin to do photosynthesis, sorry… Well, I'd probably be green if I…"

While he delivers his extra-long witty comeback, I cannot help but be a little diverted by his male beauty. _Geez, Greg is hot._ His height and presence, his hard, manly and sexily tortured features, his just-brawny-and-hairy enough torso, his big and skillful hands, his almost hypnotic baby blue eyes. My body is already starting to respond to my lustful staring when a sharp - _and turn off_ - bolt of pain shoots up my worn out legs. Marveling at my boyfriend's good looks does not seem to be a priority to my body right now as getting rid of my extra-high stilettos. I slip out of them, and my feet almost shout 'thank you' after my soles get to touch the wooden floor.

"You sure you don't want some?" he insists and I shake my head no wrinkling my nose in disapproval. The shoyu smell is making me nauseated. "Then don't come accuse me later of eating the whole thing and starving my own son", he warns me, finishing the first takeout box and reaching for the second one. _How can he still be hungry?_

"Your son and I are fine, don't worry." I reassure him, perfectly able to identify the real concern about my nutrition weakly disguised in casualness veil. "I'll let you proceed on your determined pursuit of indigestion and go take a hot shower, ok? I'm exhausted." And with that I heavily drag myself to the bathroom, yearning for the renovation only hot water can bring.

I close my eyes and surrender to the unique sensation of the smoky water wrapping my body in a hot relaxing embrace. Little by little, all of the stressful thoughts enslaving my mind abandon it like demons being exorcized from a possessed body, tension deserting from my muscles while I gently run the bath sponge all over my skin. _No more paperwork, no more budgets, no more donor indulging, no more board meetings, no more nurses' strike threatening, no more of House's crazy demands… _The list of PPTH's irons to pig under water is about to cross the dozen's mark when an almost imperceptible fluttering suddenly causes the remnant items to puff like a Jeannie going back inside of her bottle. Suddenly there is no room in my mind for anything but my baby, my Matthew James. Matt. The next world renowned Dr. House.

For two days I have been anxiously waiting to feel this again, since the other afternoon when I was bickering with House and the ducklings in the Diagnostics conference room and Matt performed his moving première, most likely annoyed by the incomprehensible and uninteresting medical quarrel. His dumbfounded dad was not able to feel it, that fact I considered to be enough punishment and rendered my authorization to another stupid and unnecessary brain biopsy. Back to the present, my hands automatically move down to caress my bulging belly in a silent plead for more action, but it does not take me long to notice that Matthew House has apparently inherited his father's fascination for teasing me pitilessly. He is clearly done indulging me with his little nudges - or kicks, or somersaults - for today. I hope my little miracle also gets the same eye color, intelligence and musical talent from the man I love, to say the very least.

Twenty minutes later, the healing power of hot water starts to wear off, and I decide it is time to quit wasting the world's most valuable and scarce natural resource. I switch the shower off and reach for my bath robe. The extra fluffy fabric feels good on my chamomile-smelling skin. I walk out of the bathroom and enter my room just to spot Greg sprawled on my bed, shirtless, attentively reading a medical journal. _Gorgeous…_ I love it when he has his reading glasses on, _sexy as hell._

Acknowledging my presence, he puts the magazine aside and takes the object of my fetish off. As if he has just read my thoughts… _Killjoy_. "Feeling better?" he asks me, this time not bothering on hiding his preoccupation.

A girlish pout adorns my face. "A little." I answer whiningly. I can see his face instantly enlightening like it always does when he pops up an impossible epiphany that will probably save someone's life. That means he is up to something. After hesitating for no longer than two seconds, he leaves the bed and limps to the bathroom. "I'm thinking about skipping work tomorrow so I can get some rest. It's only fair, after losing half of my day off watching the ER's floor being dampened in puke." I babble, and the memory immediately sickens me "I must have been the only person there who managed to keep her lunch down… I guess three long months of daily morning sickness gives you some practice…" I trail off, rummaging around my drawers to find a comfortable piece of underwear and an old loose t-shirt to sleep in when Greg exits the bathroom with my roast coconut body butter in hand.

One quick glance at his excited eyes and I figure out his hidden intentions. "Massage sounds good?" he suggests with this lethally charming half-grin of his and takes my hand in a chivalrous way, conducting me to bed. I suspect there is hardly anything chivalrous in his real agenda, yet I am honestly ok with that and eagerly accept his offer "Yeah, sure."

I sit comfortably on the mattress and he positions himself right behind me, gaining full access to my naked back once his hands slide the bath robe down my shoulders and forearms. My eyelids surrender at the first delicate contact of his buttered hands on my still tense shoulders, spreading the initially cool product all the way from my stiff neck, down my spine, easing the remaining strain that the previous shower has not been able to relieve. His touch is feather smooth and his movements purposefully deliberate; I can feel the tiresomeness escaping my body with every single press of his fingers on my muscles, as if I am his baby grand, and he is playing one of his favorite tunes.

As my mind blanks out and gives in completely to the soothing sensation of his delightful rubbing, my body starts showing its appreciation somewhere else just as enthusiastically. Desire builds up in between my legs, my clit determinedly making its presence known by a faint yet insisting throbbing. I wonder if his current actions are having the same effect on him when I sense his body spooning behind mine, his hands sliding down my waste and pulling by body against his. I gasp when his shaft gets to press on my lower back. The heat emanating from his skin is scorching, and a moan breaks free from my mouth when his stubble scrapes that particular sensitive spot on my neck. "Feels good?" he asks unnecessarily, planting wet kisses on the soft skin right under my right ear while his left palm descends all the way to my lower belly. _Oh yes, it does_.

My mouth temporarily loses the ability of speech, and all I can do is murmur my obvious answer when his warm tongue licks my cartilage. My eyes roll uncontrollably inside their cage when he engulfs my earlobe in his hot mouth and his teeth sink in. The throbbing downstairs intensifies considerably, desire spidering through my lower limbs, and I unconsciously move my hand to cup his nape and encourage his mind-blowing assault on my neck. I hear him chortle lightly at my gesture and whisper in my ear "I guess I've given enough attention to the back…"

With that said he moves to my side, leading my shoulders against the mattress until I am comfortably lying on my back. I watch passively as he pulls on the string of my ivory bath robe and denudes me, yanking the humid garment from underneath me and throwing it unceremoniously on the floor. A wicked grin adorns his face as he drinks in my nudeness as if it is a cold beer on a very hot summer day, and I out of the blue become the sexiest woman in the planet. _For him_, that is, and I really care very little about anyone else's opinion. He is such an inveterate ego-feeder making me feel this way, desirable, feminine, even more confident than I already am. Suddenly this ego-inflating thingy seems like a real threat again.

His lascivious stare is so incredibly flattering that I resolve to return the favor. Like half an hour earlier my eyes are lost in the handsomeness before me. Every detail of his figure invites me in, and the urge of getting up and meeting him on the other end of the bed is almost overpowering. I manage to stay still, though; I can tell by the sinful look in his baby blue eyes and the salient prominence in his sweatpants that he is having a blast taking care of this vulnerable and extenuated version of myself. In fact, he is having way too much fun torturing and teasing me during this relaxing process. Luckily enough, tonight I am game.

Moreover, I have had two decades to learn that nothing turns Gregory J. House on like finding a worthy opponent. One of the few personality traits we have in common. I work on my naughty look and cocky smile, flexing my knees and swinging my legs provocatively in my best Catherine Tramell's performance, providing him a panoramic view of, well, _that_. "_This_ is highly unprofessional, you know?" I state in mock seriousness, pointing at his evident hardness and pulling another chuckle out of him "All masseuses share such inappropriate behavior?"

"Of course not." he protests, a heroically persistent grin refusing to leave his lips. "Just the good ones." he completes smugly, playing with the string that fastens the hem of his sweatpants. "Do you mind?" he asks mischievously, his forehead creasing in self-satisfaction, half-parted lips curling up, _oh so kissable_... "Not at all", I hum in response, my blood fervently racing inside of my veins as he strips the inutile piece of garment that was just ruining my fun. I dry swallow in anticipation.

My heart speeds up its beating inside of my ribcage and I bite on my lower lip at the sight of his engorged well hung member exposed in front of me. _So tempting…_ My core is set in flames, yearning to be entered, and my mouth waters as some interesting verbs immediately cross my brain: _kiss, lick_… _nip, suck…_ "Anything on your mind, Dr. Cuddy?" I hear him ask teasingly, his tone coated in sexy evilness, and I gasp audibly when his right hand grabs his length and proceeds to stroke it lazily. _Up and down, up_ _and down, up and…_ Ok, this should be illegal! There should be some articles… No, better, a whole _Human Rights Convention_ should be written on House's merciless teasing. Now, in addition to resisting the urge of attacking him, I have to fight the impetus of mirroring his moves and pleasuring myself. _Awesome_.

My body aches for him, like he is my own personal brand of heroin. All the need I have been bravely able to ignore until eight months ago has became impossible to disregard from the moment he made me his. The memories of those smokin' hot afternoons in my office are not very cooperative either, so it takes me a 10-to-0 mental countdown to control the imperative to jump him but I eventually make it. I am so not handing him the gold that easily, it would give him the impression that torturous sexual provocation is his prerogative… "Hmmm, just wondering whether or not you plan to finish what you started, cuz… I am still _very_ tense, you know?" I complain in marginally true annoyance. He smiles – my favorite ever-so-adorable and breathtaking smile - and reaches for the body butter. "Aw, sorry. The view from here is quite distracting."

Lying in bed by my side, he proceeds on doing his magic to the front part of my body. He starts with my breasts – first Patty, then Selma – caressing them very delicately rather than grasping at them firmly as he truly appreciates, as well as I do. Greg has a very close relationship with my boobs - _not to say obsession_ - and I can tell he has been having a hard time watching his ministrations since the pregnancy hormones got 'his girls' swollen and sore and pretty much out of order. When he does not resist and succumbs to the temptation of licking my nipples, I hold his head in place and laugh to myself at the memory of him telling me a couple of weeks ago that since parenthood is all about abnegation, sharing my "funbags" with Matthew during the six minimum months of lactation will be his first great gesture as a father.

The memory just slips away as he keeps worshipping my breasts, licking and tenderly biting at the rock nubs while his stubble scratches the milky skin nearby… I moan in appreciation and entangle my fingers on his grey tufts to press his face against my chest. My mind is working way too poorly in the moment to come up with a metaphor that does some justice in properly illustrating the feeling, so, let's just say it feels _great_… My clit pulsates violently and my core overflows in moisture begging for his attention, and he seems to realize it as his left hand and mouth abandon my breast to head south and north, respectively. The change in position allows me to feel his hardness pressing on my right groin.

It may sound a little adolescent but, even though we have been having a lot of fun in bed since we started dating, I cannot foresee the day when kissing Greg will become commonplace. It does not seem to get old, the chill that jolts through my spine and spread through my limbs when his lips claim mine, momentarily satisfying an everlasting thirst that does not take long to come back once we part. The deaf groans that escape his throat every time I massage his tongue with mine give me a clue that he feels the same way... "I guess we're done with the massaging, right?" I whisper matter-of-factly when his lips abandon mine and move to my jaw and neck, his hand roaming around my right hipbone and greedily grasping the outside of my thigh.

"Any objections?" he inquires rhetorically, nipping a bit too forcefully on my earlobe and motioning to reach beneath my thighs to inspect my wetness. His grinding hips move unconsciously forward and I can tell he is just as ready as I am. I intercept his deliberately moving hand before it can get to its target, intertwining our fingers and bringing them to my lips. "I think we can skip this part" I murmur, brushing my lips on his knuckles. Sliding my foot over the back of his leg and invitingly widening my stance do accommodate his hips, I beg him "Make love to me, Greg".

His expression is almost solemn and he guides himself to my opening and penetrates very delicately. Since we found out about my pregnancy, Greg has been overly cautious during sex in spite of knowing there is no actual danger for the baby. He says he just cannot risk it. I can feel every inch of him immersing itself in my warmth, setting my nerve endings on fire and defeating by eyelids, which automatically drop in ecstasy. His thumb runs over my cheekbone and his lips plant a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth while he retreats and thrusts for the second time, deeper, harder, hotter… I manage to open my eyes to scrutinize his expression and am instantly drowned in the waves of baby blue elation. Greg loves to take things slowly, but I rarely allow him to do it as he pleases, urging him to go harder and faster after he nearly gave me a cardiac arrest during an invariably teasing foreplay session. His slow rhythm is absolutely torturous, and normally my Taurus impatience would stop me from enjoying it properly but there is something special about tonight. I feel like melting in his skin and absorbing every molecule of scent while he makes me writhe in his arms. I want to overdose on Gregory House.

He keeps on leisurely sliding in and out of me, and a smile creeps upon my face at the sensation of fullness. Not in the naughty way, well, _not only_… I mean _plenitude_. I feel _whole._ Body, mind and soul in a perfect and peaceful synchrony, I taste the genuine bliss losing myself in his unique love. After decades of trying to foolishly convince myself that I did not need this, I stubbornly believed I could get it with someone else, and that is when life taught me the right concept of loneliness. It is not really about being without someone as I used to think; it is about being without the one person you want. And Greg is the one I have always wanted; my one and only chance of being truthfully happy. It took me long enough to admit it, as well as it did for him to claim his leading role in my life, but I have finally learnt my lesson: Greg is irreplaceable.

_**Reviews are love, especially the long, thoughtful, positive ones... LOL! Just kidding. Speak your mind and make us both happy. :D**_

_**How did you guys like this update? Too fluffy? Do you miss some action? Well, this is not Chinese food, but you are welcome to order and I see what I can deliver, how about that? ;)**_

_**Uh, and one last question: who demands September now? Hands?**_


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